The assassin, the girl and the golem
by Mattski44
Summary: The relationship between father and daughter is an odd one, with the role between the protector and the protected far more blurred than most would like to admit. It cannot be argued though that when such a bond is strong, it can last a lifetime and can under the right conditions draw the strands of fate together to change the course of history on a thousand, thousand worlds...


**Hello all! Mattski44 here to post my first fanfic, a crossover between the ****video games Bioshock Infinite and Dishonoured. I have always loved both games and feel that they both have great lore, world-building, characters and steampunk- Mattski44 just loves all things steampunk! The fanfic idea came to me in the time just after Dishonoured had been released and a few weeks before infinite came out; to me the two worlds of Dunwall and Columbia just seem to work together, the two really compliment one another really well and so from that, the gears in my brain began to turn. Of course, after playing Bioshock Infinite, I had to change some plot points (a certain romance idea I had going!) and it took a wile for me to finalise my ideas- that and i am awful at deadlines! so here is my first chapter, which really just focuses on Booker and Elizabeth and sets the scene. The crossover proper occurs in chapter 2, which I hope to add soon, but cannot promise anything (sorry guys :(). Please, please, please review after reading, as I love reading them and will happily answer any queries you have and enjoy discussing suggestions from readers :). **

**Right! enough of me, enjoy! **

**The assassin, the girl and the golem**

A dishonoured/ bioshock crossover

The relationship between father and daughter is an odd one, with the role between the protector and the protected far more blurred than most would like to admit. It cannot be argued though that when such a bond is strong, it can last a lifetime and can under the right conditions draw the strands of fate together to change the course of history on a thousand, thousand worlds.

The drone of airship propellers was a loud and grating hum that filled the maintenance deck and seemed to reverberate from every metal wall and strut it hit. To Booker Dewitt, ex-Pinkerton agent and mercenary, the noise was deafening. Despite the noise, he could still hear the Vox Populi's chanting that rose up from the floating platforms far below, the cries of "Vox!", "Fitzroy!" and even "Dewitt!" were carried by the wind even to these dizzying heights, the words distinguishable even from the screams and the crackle of fire as Columbia was put to flame.

Not that he cared; All he was interested in was securing the craft so that he could call in his debts with Daisy Fitzroy and the promise she had made as she cast him from The First Lady all that time ago. Besides, the city was a marble cesspool of madmen and zealots. There wasn't much of Columbia that deserved to be saved, and precious little that had escaped the rage of the Vox. No, he did not care for whatever fate awaited the city, not anymore. To be fair, there had once been a time when he had thought the city beautiful, literally a shining Eden in the sky, true to the propaganda plastered to every wall that sang praise to Comstock, the founding fathers and Columbia itself in equal adulation. That was before the ugly truth had been lain bare in front of him during the city's celebrations, in that horrific raffle where he had won the 'prize' of throwing the first ball at a couple whose only crime was to have clashing skin colours. It had only become worse as he had fought his way across the city.

First was the encounter with the rabid crow-worshipers that haunted the dilapidated mansion he had found himself in and the all too human remains that rested in the gilded cages suspended from the trees. Though the alarm bells in the disgraced detective's mind had started ringing long before that grisly sight. It had been the marble statue of John Wakes Booth looming above him ominously and encrusted with dried guano that had put the Pinkerton on his guard. To Booker's mind, you would have to be crazy to venerate a man who had killed a president and, a few corridors later, even madder to depict a president as satanic. That was before he had found the torture rooms, their cells splattered with the blood and urine of the poor souls who must have once been detained there. To be frank, the eugenics and charts scrawled with words like 'racial hierarchy' and 'white superiority' hadn't troubled him that much; the science was popular enough in the states for it not to offend or shock him and he was not surprised that Columbia had embraced it with open arms, the science matching Comstock's own theology to a tee.

It was the sight of a man being torn apart by hungry crows that had caused him to finally snap. The cries of agony from the helpless victim were enough to make Booker force the door open with a frantic desperation, only for it to be too late. The rage that welled up within him was as much a factor in his battle with the hooded zealot as his own survival instinct that screamed as the sword blade swung towards him. The struggle had been intense, but by the end the black-clothed man was a mass of charred cloths and flesh. Panting, Booker was left alone in the courtyard after that battle, still as his hand clutched a new vigor plucked from the corpse the smoke and music from the gramophone nearby lazily drifted upwards and away into the sky. That day he had faced off against a man who had made it his duty to terrorise those whom he saw as superior and Booker had failed to save a man he didn't know; his prize had been a little bottle with a beaked stopper that allowed him to have power over crows. In that sense, he supposed, his flight through the raven-worshipers' house had not been totally pointless.

Finkton docks had its own horrors thanks to its owner; the wealthy industrialist shown to be no better than the feathered brothers through the kinetiscope that praised him for 'solving the Irish problem'. Fink made it perfectly clear that he saw his workers as little more than slaves, cattle to be moved and dropped at a whim and whose welfare was not his concern. Booker had to admit that even he, a man to whom poverty and squalor had been constant companions, had grimaced at the conditions in the shantytown. Elizabeth, however, had been thoroughly appalled at what she saw, her innocent mind rebelling against the injustice of it all. He had seen it in her eyes, a quiet anger mixed with sadness that had come over her. It had been no small surprise that she had started to voice support for Fitzroy and her little uprising. He'd simply grunted and told her what he knew; that sometimes the world needed people like Fitzroy to go against people like him.

Booker's musings stopped when he felt the energy in his left hand become low and drop, the vigor stored in that arm draining his body of power. Absentmindedly, he called out for salt, spinning to pluck the round, blue bottle from the air as it was expertly thrown.

The motion was in perfect harmony with the tune of "Booker! Catch!"

Briefly, the movement made him look at the one precious thing in this city that was worth saving; Elizabeth Comstock, the lamb of Columbia, his charge and, in many ways, his friend peeking from her improvised cover of a large, steel girder. Her excursion was brief, with the girl retreating back behind the metal support as soon as the bottle of salts left her hand. Despite Booker's best efforts, she had not come through their fight across the city unscathed, with her shirt torn in several places, her dress ripped at one of the seams and her innocence shattered a long time ago, all thanks to Mr Dewitt. Booker was grateful that her optimism was still as strong as her iron-hard will and her drive to see the shining lights of Paris. He'd get her to that city, or he'd die trying.

Reality hit him quite literally in the face as a whizzing bullet clipped his ear, the magnetic field given to him by those strange twins absorbing the damage with a flash of yellow. The pain, however, was not removed and Booker winced slightly as he moved his hand to his tab, dabbing away blood that wasn't there. Focusing, he levelled his shotgun at a group of blue-clad founders hidden behind some of the crates that the hangar held, only to take his left had from the stock of the weapon and point it at the assembled troops. For just a few seconds, his hand flared and warped as black feathers erupted from his wrist and hand, rippling as they grew in number and size, and his fingers became covered in scales that formed from the greying flesh, a hooked claw ending each digit.

Then the crows came.

Setting about his enemies with their razor-sharp beaks, the vicious birds tore into the soldiers' tunics, which became specked with red as the ragged holes in their tunics revealed rent and slashed flesh. Terrible as the wounds were, they were not serious, the vigour working more as a distraction rather than a weapon, just as Marlow, its inventor, had envisioned. The soldiers were too busy desperately shacking away the awful birds to notice Booker edging forwards, weapons at the ready.

As the murderous flock finally began to disperse, the Pinkerton agent saw his chance and flung himself at the first man, skyhook in hand. The ratcheted arms of the commandeered tool fell upon the man's neck with ease and Booker executed a move he was now well-versed in through fighting the hordes of enemies that seemed to infest the floating city. His opponent, a scared founder with a blue broady, barely had time to try and prize off the collar formed by the hooked appendages when Booker pulled the contraption's wooden trigger. The soldier was decapitated in a small explosion of viscera and brain matter, the violence spectacular enough to warrant a gasp from a startled Elizabeth, the noise audible even though the girl was out of sight. Dewitt was simply stayed grim-faced and hefted his shotgun to deal with the next fool who would try to stop him.

A porcelain-masked woman was the next guard to throw herself at him, a broadsider pistol gleaming in her hands. However small and harmless the weapon looked, Booker had experience enough to know that at such close quarters the precise little gun could be lethal, its short range meaning little in a confined space. He'd learned that lesson more than once, the last time being when a well-placed bullet in his stomach had left him on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness as a frantic Elizabeth knelt over him, syringe in hand. Taking no chances, he pulled the trigger of his china broom before she could loose a shot, buckshot shredding her uniform, light armour and abdomen with equal ease. He did not see her stagger backwards and fall to the floor as he had already spun around to deal with a founder wielding a baton. The man was no problem as Booker's china broom clumsily removed his arm at point blank, weapon and all, before Dewitt kicked the screaming man away.

There were now only a few founders left, a cluster of guards clustered around the airship's main engine, their triple R machineguns levelled carefully at the False Sheppard as they sent bursts of gunfire his way. Ducking behind an upturned table, Booker carefully attached the bulky shotgun to his leather harness before pulling his own broadsider from its holster, loading it with a _clack_. As he planned his next move, a searing pain erupted on his back, a burning sensation only held in check by his magnetic field. The sensation was familiar enough to the Pinkerton to know that it had been the splash from a fiery grenade, a fireball courtesy of Devil's Kiss vigor. Once again thanking and cursing the enigmatic twins and their glowing infusions, he turned to face the foe that had flanked him.

He had known that it was a fireman before he had heard its distinctive, heavy footfalls and the bellow of its pyromaniac-inspired war cry and taunts. There was only one enemy he knew in Columbia that had such a mastery over flames and the signature attack had left him in no doubt. For all their ferocity, the piston-clad monsters were predictable and after several encounters, Dewitt had, through luck and skill in equal measure, found a trusted method for bringing the fanatics down. After a few bouts with the grill-faced fighters, he'd found them far less of a challenge than the first flaming brute he had encountered in during his escape from the raffle all that time ago. Throwing himself to the left, he fell into a sprint, juggling desperately between dodging the machinegun fire from the entrenched founders, which sent splintered wood into the air as they hit the wood inches away from his feet, and the volley of fireballs hurled in his direction by the stove-totting fireman. Thankfully, the fiery payload of the Devil's Kiss vigour was slow moving and the triple R's inaccurate enough for the old Pinkerton to make the mad dash to his next piece of cover unscathed. Hunkered behind another stack of Fink boxes, Booker could feel his magnetic field wrapped around his body strain and grow thin, the energy barely holding the marvel of physics together, even though he was sure he had taken less than a scratch from the wild fireballs and bullets. It was a shore sign that he had to bring the fight to a close.

Readying himself, Booker fixed his gaze on the glowing fireman and lashed out with his left hand, arm pumped with salt. What happened next made Dewitt wince, as blue crystals ruptured from his palm and knuckles, slick with blood and clear fluid. The lightning arched its way towards his foe in a single blast, hitting him square in the stomach. The Shock Jockey did its job, the fireman reduced to a spasming mess as its limbs twitched like some demented marionette, the electricity leaping around the metal that reinforced his suit. Seeing his chance, Booker levelled his broadsider at the stunned monster, laying round after round into the brute as fast as he could pull the weapons trigger. He was grateful that he'd spent his silver eagles on increasing the pistol's clip size at a minuteman when he had last passed one of the drumming automatons, as the upgrade meant that he only had to reload once. In the knowledge that the electricity would not last forever, he slammed the fresh clip home with considerable speed, cocking his gun fast enough for the action to be a blur.

As the last of the lightning dissipated away from the fireman's armour, Booker allowed himself a small smile as he surveyed his handiwork; the monster was already wheezing smoke and cinders from where he should not have, the piping around his body hissing from where the bullets had punctured it. The rest of the suit looked no better, the padding scorched and blackened in several places as the electricity had burned the padding, something the fire from the vigor had never achieved, the fabric fused into patches of solid mass due to the heat from the blue sparks. Still full of defiance, the encased fanatic roared, a high-pitched whine emitting from deep within its suit and the metal supports clamped to its arms and legs began to grow red as the suit absorbed the heat from the Devil's Kiss. To the Pinkerton's trained eye, it was clear that the injured fireman was readying for a suicidal charge, a tactic he had seen many times before and had survived.

Readying his shotgun, Booker waited for the stampede, the fireman before him snorting like a mad bull and even pawing the ground with one of its hobnail boots. With the final cry of "Burn in hell!", the fireman charged head-long towards Booker, who was calmly waiting for the encased man to come into range of his buckshot, China Broom gripped tightly in his hands. Bracing himself as the beast came nearer, Dewitt's expression suddenly became one of surprise, his eyes widening before his brow furrowed into a tight knot of confusion as the iron-clad beast ran strait past him, missing the Pinkerton entirely.

His confusion grew when he noticed the lack of bullets flying towards him from all directions, the fireman seeming to have been the only foe to be fighting him for the last few minutes. Now he was no longer focused solely on the flame-spewing founder, the absence of chatter from machineguns was only just being noticed. A glance towards the engine, Booker was quick to see that the majority of the soldiers there had disappeared, with only a few stragglers now viable as they made their way to a pair of pressurised doors at the far end of the deck, the words _emergency escape _neatly stencilled onto each one in blue paint. Whilst the fireman also seemed to be running that way, trailing flames as he went, his comrades did not seem to be waiting for him, the doors swinging shut with a hiss followed by a rumble that could only be the rapid spinning of locking wheels, sealing the doors shut. Whilst it was apparent that the fireman would not be joining the rest of the founders, he continued running in the same direction, strait across the deck. It perplexed Booker no end, the whine that came from the creature told Dewitt that it didn't have long left; surely it knew that too? All that would occur would be that the man would explode, even if he did reach the locked doors, so what was the founder thinking?

The answer hit Booker with the full force of a handyman. The doors had never been the fireman's target at all. He'd been heading to the engine. The engine; if the brute detonated in the exposed furnace, he could blow the whole airship to kingdom come, along with anyone else trapped on board.

Panic flared inside the Pinkerton as the information stomped itself into his mind. But as his brain was frozen with fear, his body acted out of instinct as reflexes that had long become entrenched in the fighter sprang into life. His left hand moved before he had even realised what he was doing, the pain as the skin and flesh diced itself roughly into little chunks alerting him to what he was doing. His arm flexed and, though no projectile was spawned from it, the effects were clear; the area around the fireman shaking as he was thrown into the air, the action accompanied by the whinnying of mad horses. The Booking Bronco was true to its name, with both the fireman and all the loose debris around it suspended within the yellow haze of the vigor's effect. With the monstrous beast quite helpless, Booker was slightly more relaxed, pleased that he could deal with it at his own leisure.

With only a few shells for his shotgun and having used enough of his pistol rounds on the fireman already, Booker holstered both weapons and turned to the iron girder, now some yards away. Elizabeth did not have to guess what Booker wanted and drew back her arm to throw the Triple R to him, having kept it in her arms since the start of the battle. Raising his hand to receive it, Booker's vision suddenly blurred. Agony shot from his shoulder as a web of yellow cracks laced their way across his eyes. His trembling hand and yellow hallucinations were enough to tell him that the magnetic field broken, quite literally shattering. The pain, however, was enough for such knowledge to be little more than an afterthought.

Staggering to the left, Dewitt was vaguely aware of the glowing eyes just visible behind him. They gleamed from a bronze mask, a snarling rendition of Lady Liberty, the wearer only now making them known via a well-placed shot from their Paddywhacker hand cannon, the bullet now lodged in Booker's shoulder. The white-clad figure must have followed the fireman and simply waited, biding their time until now, when Booker had finally come off guard. Breathing heavily, Dewitt through himself sideways, the wood next to him splintering as another round impacted into the wooden floor, nearly clipping the old Pinkerton's shin. Another bullet would end him, as even with the infusions that he had found scattered around the floating city, he doubted he could take another slug as equally well-placed as the first.

A quick glance back towards the girder showed Elizabeth ready to drop the gun in her hand, probably in favour of a bag of medical supplies for the bleeding Booker. The old Pinkerton, however, waved for her to stop, his gut telling him that the gun might become a useful asset in the next few minutes. Taking a deep breath, Booker clambered to his feet, using the now unslung shotgun as a crude crutch, his eyes alert for his attacker's next move. To his surprise, the white-clad founder had stalked closer towards him, her advance surprising him. Despite his improved view, Booker was still lacked the chance of felling the woman, the angle needed for his weapon to strike true too awkward for him to reach in his current position. The only alternative was to get closer to his enemy, an action the founder was surely smart enough to make sure he could not complete. In fact the only reason the hand cannonier was brazen enough to step closer towards the False Shepherd was that she saw him on the floor, weak and vulnerable. It was a misperception Booker could use to his advantage.

Straitening fully, Dewitt made his way across the deck limping, as if wounded, feigning that the second bulled had too hit him squarely, rather than simply nip his leg. Seeing her prey flounder, the masked woman edged closer, finally bringing her full body into view. To Booker, it was a sure sign that his pantomime was working and so he continued, sending himself head over heals in a mock-trip. The founder edged closer, Paddywhacker primed, but not aimed. Whether her slow speed was out of caution or whether the woman was toying with him, Booker didn't know, but he knew that whatever the reason, he needed a way of luring the masked foe closer, and so shuffled backwards past another stack of crates, which now obscured the founder's view. Backing further still, Dewitt found that his movement brought the woman closer, her pace quickening with frustration as she sought to bring the fight to an end.

His luck appeared to run out when his back hit another crate and to his horror, he realised he was now penned into a corner. He couldn't afford to stand either, the lack of a bullet already resting in his skull only being so due to his play of being wounded to the point of incapacitation. Any action that showed that he wasn't completely defenceless would earn him a death sentence. All he could do was wait and prey that his gamble would pay off. The Lady Liberty-masked soldier was no more than six feet away, her mask fixed upon him and frozen with zeal and contempt, her hand cannon aimed carefully in order to slay the False Shepherd once and for all.

To the founder woman, the boom from the China Broom came from no-where, the weapon flying into Booker's hands with such speed that it had been nothing but a blur. Caught off guard, there was no way she could defend herself and the full force of the shell hit her in the chest, ripping shredding the pristine, white jacket and flesh underneath with equal, terrifying ease. For a moment, nothing happened, the soldier just stood their, immobile, her Paddywhacker dropping to the floor with a clatter. Her arms dropped down to her sides, fists clenching and unclenching in pain and yet not a whisper of sound left her lips behind the mask. Finally, her knees hit the floor with a dull thud, her masked face following seconds later with a ringing clang. In the lieu after the fight, Booker looked at the mask, its glowing eyes now quickly dimming and a small trickle of blood oozing from its sneering mouth. In that moment the battle-mask looked more sad than fierce and Booker found himself wondering who the woman underneath it had been: whether she was around Elizabeth's age, if there was someone who loved her, if she had a family and if they would mourn her.

He quickly dismissed the thoughts, knowing all too well where they lead and pulled himself to his feet. Sighing loudly, he grabbed a salt vial from a crate; its top levered off to reveal a score or so of the odd blue bottles nestled within the straw. Once he had quickly drained the vial, he allowed himself a small celebration of victory by cracking his knuckles, his mind already focused on how to finish off the fireman still trapped further along the deck.

"Booker!"

Elizabeth's cry sent him spinning, first to the alarmed girl, her blue eyes wide, before following her stare along the deck. His own eyes widened quickly at the sight that greeted him. The yellow haze that surrounded the entrapped fireman had grown light in colour and before his eyed it was dispersing, the prison that held the monster disappearing. The fireman hit the ground with a thump, its legs moving very literally like pistons the moment it was free of the Bucking Bronco. His eyes still wise, Booker urgently called to Elizabeth, the girl ready to throw him the Triple R as soon as he opened his mouth. It was too late though, the fireman having already sprinted the last few yards, whining all the way, and into the open furnace door and the flames within.

Helpless, but tense, the only action Booker could take was to watch the distant engine wail in distress, a klaxon blaring out across the deck. His final words were "Oh shit…", before he was cut off as the maintenance deck was engulfed in flames.

To anyone looking up at the skies above the once fair city of Columbia, the destruction of the blue airship, _The Might of Faith_, would have been a sight to behold. The first signs of distress were the tongues of fire spurting from the portholes on the lower decks, the small explosions gradually travelling upwards from floor to floor. Eventually, the fire spilled onto the top deck in a violent eruption, the gondola now sporting a crown of roaring flames. As the heat intensified, the flames licked at the belly of the large balloon that kept the craft aloft, fire dancing along the web of ropes that shackled it to the gondola. For a moment, the burning airship hung their, shedding debris as it floundered in the still air. It was not long, though, before the flickering trails winding themselves up the ropes and rigging eventually made it to the balloon and the hydrogen inside began to ignite.

The resulting fireball was spectacular, an oily mass of raging fire that spat and fumed at the air around it with greed, the flames burning like a small sun for a moment before dying down, its fuel depleted. The hydrogen balloon had all but evaporated, with only the twisted metal of its cage remaining, the rent metal resembling the warped ribcage of some immense seabeast. With its lift gone, the craft fell like a whale descending into the abyss, plunging past the city's floating platforms and down into the 'Sodom Below'.

Terrific as the airship's destruction had been, the explosion had been small in comparison to those that boomed down in the city, belching noise and shrapnel into the air. Even the oily smoke that bled a tail from the charred wreck was lost as it mingled with far larger swathes that bellowed from Finkton and Emporia as fires, both accidental and arson, released their own black streamers into the chocked sky. The heavy guns of both sides also added to the stew of ash and carbon, along with the odd ammunition catch that detonated in a single deafening explosion. Against such a backdrop, the plight of a single airship was lost, trivial even, small and immaterial and really no cause for study or alarm.

Unless if the survival of certain individuals on said airship was of great personal importance, in which case you might be watching the crash with utmost attention, as did two figures to whom the rest of Columbia was…irrelevant. They stood on one of the clock towers in Finkton, on an old observation platform that, in more peaceful times, had been a great vantage point to which guests of Mr Fink could see the full glory of the city. Now, it served the couple wall as a place from which to spy on their quarry, watching the events from afar with great interest as they unfolded. There was something odd about these two though, an odd sense that they weren't really there at all and yet they were as solid as any other matter. It could have been the way they acted and held themselves, oblivious to the destruction around them as if the warfare couldn't hurt them.

So, they continued to stare at the sky, these twins in matching cloths of camel, red and green, their hair immaculate and red. She, perched gracefully on a stool, a pair of opera glasses in hand (they were her companion's really, but he was far too gentlemanly to not offer them to her) and he, bent double, viewing the scene through a telescope attached to the railings. Oblivious and aloof to the chaos around them, the two patiently watched two dots quickly fall from the airship, before the flames enveloped it completely, and promptly disappear. To any other observer, it would have been dismissed as a trick of the light or dust on the lens, but the pair knew better.

As one, the two broke from their vigil and looked at one another, their smug expressions condescending and curious all at once.

"Well this is one for the books,"

"Quite, I hadn't anticipated that outcome."

"What, that they might fall through a tear?"

"You know perfectly well that I predicted their displacement within dimensions as being perfectly probable"

"Precisely! It is their destination that you had not anticipated."

"Indeed, though I would point out that you never saw this as a logical outcome either."

"True, but we should still investigate. Who knows, we might find someone like us."

"Oh, I hope not, you are all the scintillating convocation I need; everyone else is just so…"

"Dull?"

"Precisely, other people simply lack whit and decorum"

"But you will come?"

"With you? Certainly, even if it is only to collect data."

"Then lets away!"

"Rather, I just hope you packed our cases"

And, sharing a wry half-smile, the two disappeared, almost as if they had never been there at all.

They were falling, the air whipping around them both, Booker's tie flapping above his head like a noose and her own clothing moving as if it were suspending her via a thousand tiny strings, each one taught and pulling her blouse and dress upwards. Elizabeth knew that they had had no other choice when the airship burst into flames, it was either burn to death or jump and she and Booker had taken their chances and leapt. She knew that they had survived such falls before, back when she had only just left her tower, an enraged songbird hot on their heels. They had only made it due to a skyline, and as far as she could see the sky was be rift of anything that resembled such devices that had saved them last time. There seemed to be no way to stop them from falling. Falling wasn't the problem; it was the landing that was fatal. Thinking furiously, she remembered the time when she'd saved Booker's life by tearing in a balloon to stop him from falling, his body tossed over the edge of a platform by an irate handyman.

That was it; she could tear their way out of the situation. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, her frustration rising as she realised that there was no convenient mosquito, grainy and monotone, for her to channel and hitch a ride on. Such a lack of tears was troublesome, but she remembered a time long ago, when she was younger, when the absence of physical tears had never been a hindrance to her powers. The memory still in her mind, she focussed on a patch of blue that was far below them, but loosing distance rapidly. Taking herself back to a time when she was only six years old and loved her tower, when the library had been a playroom and her bedroom a nursery, she willed herself to remember a technique she had found long ago, stumbling across it as if by chance. Focussing on the thin barrier that separated what was from what could be, she pulled.

It was far harder than she had remembered, the thin sheet of space-time far tougher and more resilient than she had predicted. Unfazed, she concentrated, flushing the reality below her with energy, desperately searching for any weaknesses, the slightest crack even, that she could exploit. Her instincts told her that the force she used was not enough and so she re-doubled her efforts, driving the energy from her body into her assault on the fabric of reality. Still the barrier held. Snarling, she continued her battle, gradually becoming more and more focussed. Eventually, there was only her, the sense of falling and her target that stubbornly refused to move, the rest of the world pushed out of her mind. Her other senses shut off as she concentrated, as the girl wanted neither distraction nor energy wasted upon them; she was oblivious to Booker and his frantic shouting, the acrid smell of smoke, the wet water droplets on her skin as they fell through a cloud and the taste of blood as she bit on her cheek in effort.

For what seemed like an eternity, the walls of reality held fast against her efforts, her breath baited. Just then, there! Quicker than the eye could see, a blue spark fizzled across the sky and died, fast enough to be dismissed as a trick of the light. To the Lamb of Columbia, it was a sign of salvation and her predatory gaze fell upon it like a hawk catching sight of a vole. Without mercy, she applied more power, applying the pressure with the precision of a scalpel and the force of a sledgehammer. Under such force, the rules of the universe could only offer token resistance, and so reality wavered slightly before buckling and collapsing completely, a small hole lined with blue lightning rippling into existence.

As the tear flickered into existence, Elizabeth pushed with her mind, instinct taking over from conscious thought. She simply watched the tear grow, wavering and straining like an open maw, until it reached a size that would grant her and Booker safe passage. With the wind tugging at her from all sides, Elizabeth silently watched as she fell through the tear and into the world beyond.

To a frantic Booker, the change that came over Elizabeth as the two of them hurtled downwards was far more worrying and frightening than the prospect of the two of them falling to their deaths. For the past few minutes, her gaze was blank and her body still, as if the girl had passed out with her eyes still wide open. Desperate to understand what was wrong with her, he called out, frantic with worry.

"Elizabeth? Elizabeth!"

His cries of fear, fear for her and her safety, came from his mouth, yet the words were stolen by the wind, never reaching the entranced girl. Frustrated, Booker tried again, his vocal cords sore as they strained to give his voice enough raw power to fight the wind. It was no use; Elizabeth was still as deaf to him as when he had been silent, the girl making no movement to show that she had heard him.

The shimmering portal surprised him, an audible gasp escaping his lips as he watched the silent Elizabeth drop through the blue gate, which wavered as she passed. Determined to follow his charge, he moved his arms, stiffening them against the force of the wind and moving them to position himself over the rent in space-time, dropping through it as he fell a few more yards.

Still they fell, the tear opening into yet more sky; a grey and stormy mess of smoke and dust. Elizabeth continued to stare blankly, her gaze unseeing, her eyes not taking in the world around her. Booker, however, saw the place they found themselves, his eyes wide with terror and awe. War dominated, the sound of gunfire and explosions deafening and the sky alight with flames that crackled and splintered. All around him, figures battled; savage, green-skinned beasts corkscrewing through the sky with rockets strapped to their backs. Their foes were different, clad in gilded armour of red and yet still as equally monstrous as their enemies, each bigger than a fireman. To his left flew a group of golden warriors that glided on very literal wings of feather and fire, their forms bedecked in scrolls and wearing masks that put those worn by Columbia's assailants to shame. He would have admired such craftsmanship if the figures hadn't been lost to the fearsome backdrop of a gargantuan fortress, a huge bronze eagle, pockmarked and speckled with shell holes, prominently displayed on its battlements. Clad in enough religious icons to supply at least three sets of Columbia with iconography, its craggy sides were rhythmically illuminated with by the volleys of its own gun batteries, the flashes from the from the firing cannons and other, stranger, weapons casting the already ominous decoration in an eyrie half-light. Looking downwards, Booker heard the fizzle that he had long associated with tears and saw Elizabeth below him, another glowing portal opened on her command. Desperate to follow her, the Pinkerton fell through shortly after, the two disappearing from the scene of carnage.

Their second destination was a city, the uniform skyline unbroken save for a single, immense tower, the large structure at its top making it seem like some enormous fungi that had bloomed from the urban sprawl. What caught Booker's attention were the hundreds of scuttling creatures, or, looking closer, were they machines? It was difficult to tell, the beings seeming to be an amalgamation of the two, but not in the sense of Columbia's cyborgs of metal and flesh. The range of forms all had an organic quality to them, curved and smooth, and they moved with a fluidity that he had not seen before in machines. Even the ones that tottered around on three legs still managed to move with grace and those that hovered in the air did so like hummingbirds, albeit with quite obvious engines grafted onto their bodies. He could see a figure on the tower they were converging onto, a man clad in strange orange armour, standing firm, his crowbar raised. He did not run from the swarm, instead he held his ground, waiting patiently for the hoard to reach him.

For an instant, Booker was also sure that he could also see another man, dressed in a simple suite, standing on the tower. Looking up, the calm figure smiled smugly at him, his hand raised in a polite wave, before he turned to look at the orange-armoured fighter. Booker blinked and the man was gone, leaving the Pinkerton to question if he had ever really been there at all. As the pair continued to plummet towards the ground, another tear opened and the two continued to fall into a different place.

Their next destination was a dilapidated building, nearly hollow due to age and neglect. The great, glass windows, a web of steel spanning them for strength, revealed the cold sea and other structures that mirrored the one the pair found themselves falling through, a decaying metropolis barely visible through the hazy glass. Even when blurred due to the violent speed at which the two were traveling, the decor of the city was exquisite, gleaming gold and polished bronze still visible under the greens and blues of algae and corrosion. The further they fell, the more their surroundings changed, reveal rusting pipes and ragged protrusions, where floors and rooms had once stood. Every know and again, a leak of one form or another would cause water to cascade downwards as waterfalls, sometimes as torrents, other times as merely the smallest trickle. If Booker and Elizabeth had cared to look any closer, they would have seen sea plants clinging to the steel and stone, surviving off the spray alone. Within these plants, tiny crabs and other scavengers thrived, living their quiet lives in the remains of the once grand structure.

Such scenery was lost on Booker, his brain far more concerned with the collection of pipes and debris that loomed towards him at an ever-closer distance. A curse escaping his lips, he was only saved by another blue-edged tear appearing, Elizabeth ripping yet another hole into reality in order to save them from peril. He was no longer below the waves now, but above them, the cold, grey water foaming slightly due to the swell. Frantically, he searched for Elizabeth, the girl lost from his vision and neither above, nor below him. Still canning the sky for his charge, all Booker Dewitt could do was tumble into the waters below, still screaming for the missing girl.

**Thanks for reading :) please review and don't be afraid to ask questions- I ****don't bite!**

**As for some of the other dimensions Booker and Elizabeth fall through- well, what is the Astronomican but the largest lighthouse ever?...**

**Until next time! :)**


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